


Asking

by pangodillO



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Anal Sex, Angst, Avox Earl, M/M, Oral Sex, Quarter Quell, Sign Language, all Carloses are trans Carloses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 21:57:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5432258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pangodillO/pseuds/pangodillO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're sex noises like any other sex noises: beautiful in the moment, strange and awkward anywhere else—but they sound natural, unaffected by what's been stolen from Earl.  It could be any couple's noises, but it isn't; it's his noises and Earl's, and Earl's <i>voice<i> is, God, hoarse and broken and so, so beautiful.</i></i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Asking

**Author's Note:**

> This is set smack in the middle of an extensive AU 'verse that, for the most part, doesn't yet exist, and which doesn't belong entirely (or even mostly) to me--this belongs to the entire trash chat. The Carlos is my own trans Carlos; the Earl is modeled physically after [Jathis](http://jathis.tumblr.com)' Earl. Here's what you need to know: When Carlos was seventeen, he was Reaped for the Hunger Games, and won. Before the Games, the tributes were hosted in prominent citizens' homes; Carlos stayed with Cecil, an announcer for the Hunger Games, and befriended one of the Avoxes there, Earl Harlan. Now it's the Quarter Quell and he's back, three years later.
> 
> Please note that this Carlos is only one trans man; he is not a guide to all trans men. His dysphorias, language preferences, and feelings about his body are not the dysphorias, preferences, and feelings of all trans men. This is true of every trans character I write; I used to think I didn't need to disclaim that, but, well, here we are. I'm not writing this to educate you on The Trans Experience; I'm writing this to portray the singular, unique experience of one trans person.
> 
> This section doesn't actually portray anything that I think needs a warning; however, it is the Hunger Games, so there are discussions of plenty of things that might be triggering. Feel free to [ask me directly](mailto:pangodillo@gmail.com) for more details if you're unsure.

Carlos smiles pretty for the cameras. He fields questions about his body and his name and his Reaping—"did it feel good to be Reaped as a boy tribute" "how did you feel when they called your boy name"—and never once loses his temper. The journalists don't needle him so much this time around; he looks like a boy, he was Reaped as a boy, his chosen name is his legal name, and they can't really argue that he's not what he claims to be.

More exhausting are the ones that ask him if he's "excited to be back", as though the Games are as much fun for the tributes as for the Capitol. As if he's looking forward to a fight that will inevitably mean his death.

He got lucky once. Lucky to have captured Cecil's attention, lucky to have sponsors, lucky to be able to think on his feet. He survived, once.

He won't survive again.

Finally, the day's media circus is over and he's allowed to return to his lodgings. He's staying with Cecil again; the tributes' tower is in perfect repair this time, but the Games' publicity department seems to think there may have been a romantic connection to exploit for television—or at least, they're willing to exploit it and probably don't care if it ever actually existed, playing clips of their brief meetings over the last few years with commentary about _hidden tension_. Carlos doesn't care; he's glad to be in a familiar space, one that's marginally more private than the tributes' tower, where he's stayed with the tributes he's mentored the last three years.

Small mercies.

He fidgets through dinner, his eyes on the floor, ignoring or barely responding to Cecil's cheerful chatter. It's not like Cecil needs Carlos' help to carry on a conversation, and it's taking all of Carlos' concentration not to stare at the Avoxes serving the meal. If the media knew where the real hidden tensions were, the consequences would be unbearable.

Not for Carlos. He's a Tribute; Tributes are untouchable until they're in the ring.

He doesn't look at them, doesn't look at their hands, doesn't know if—doesn't know who is among them. Still, he touches a fingertip to his chin each time a plate is set in front of him or his glass is refilled, a tiny sign of gratitude too quick to be noticed by anyone who doesn't already know. The little he'd managed to learn of Avox signing is all like that, rapid tiny gestures meant to go unnoticed by masters.

When dinner is finally over, Carlos flees to his room, slams his door shut and presses back against it, trying to hold in a sob. He tries so hard to be numb in front of the cameras, in front of anyone else, and everything he has to hold back comes bursting out of him the moment he's alone. He slides to the floor, arms wrapped around his legs, face pressed into his knees, holding his breath until the suppressed crying shakes him, rattling him against the door. 

There's a soft tap, and he startles, pressing his hands over his mouth to stifle his cries.

After a long moment there's another tap, a little louder; no voice calls through the crack in the door frame. Carlos scrambles to his feet and yanks the door open, reaching for Earl even before he can clear his eyes enough to see.

Earl reaches back, taking Carlos' hands and stepping inside, kicking the door shut. Carlos clings to him like this isn't the first time they've seen each other in years, like he hasn't spent those years drinking to forget. He can't speak, can't quiet his sobs enough to even say hello; he muffles them against Earl's shoulder and lets them shake through him.

Earl holds him, guiding him toward the bed, humming soft in the back of his throat. It's a long time before Carlos is calm enough to draw back, wipe his face and then look up at Earl.

He looks different—before, his adulthood looked fresh, not quite fitting on his narrow frame, still clumsy with new height; he's broadened now, and settled into his body. His face is the same, though, his expression of concern and permanent sorrow identical. Carlos touches his face and whispers, "I've missed you, Earl."

He's been in the Capitol since his own games, of course; three other Games, six other tributes, not a single winner among them. He hasn't been back here, though, and so hasn't seen Earl at all.

Earl gives the smallest smile, tilting his face into the touch and pressing his own damaged hand over Carlos'; Carlos' breath catches.

He is himself an adult now, too, twenty to Earl's twenty-two. Eyes wide, terrified anew but grateful for this terror over the other, he breathes, "Earl... I want..."

Earl's eyes widen.

"Ah, no, don't—" Carlos pulls away, pulls himself into a ball on the corner of the bed and stares at the wall. "God, I'm sorry, I can't believe I—you know I don't think of you like, like that, like—"

Earl's left hand lands on his knee. Carlos looks up, lip between his teeth, heart in his throat. With his right hand, the one that has all its fingers, Earl spells, **Like a possession,** and then signs, **I know you don't.**

"I can't ask you—"

Earl puts two fingers over Carlos' mouth. When Carlos is silent, he says, **So I'm asking you.**

His fingers fall away from Carlos' mouth, dragging at his lips, and Carlos watches him watch his mouth. He's been alone for so long, and scared for so long, and he doesn't know if he can survive this Games or what he'll have to live for if he does; he says, "Are you sure? You don't have to, Earl."

Earl nods, pressing his hands to Carlos' face and leaning in. That's all the confirmation Carlos needs; he leans to meet him, lips pressing just softly together. A quiet noise slips from his throat, and he quashes it only to hear it echoed back from Earl's throat.

Earl draws back when Carlos opens his mouth to deepen the kiss, and Carlos feels stung for only a moment before he remembers. 

"Sorry," he breathes, and Earl just shakes his head, kisses him again, closemouthed. Kisses his mouth only briefly before moving to his cheeks, his forehead, the tip of his nose; kisses him until he unfolds from his ball and reaches for Earl.

Earl tugs at Carlos' hips, and Carlos moves with Earl's hands, lying stretched on his back with Earl leaned up over him. Earl's eyes are dark, intense as he hovers silently over Carlos; then he leans down, presses kisses to Carlos' mouth—cheek—jaw—neck—Carlos' breath catches, Earl's hands at the hem of his shirt. Sliding up underneath, broad hot palms spreading over Carlos' belly, and Carlos can't speak, can hardly breathe. Earl looks up at him, a question, and he can only nod, allow Earl to push the shirt up, curl up and let it be pulled off his shoulders.

Earl pulls back in surprise, putting out a hand and then pulling back, looking up at Carlos' face. Carlos nods.

Earl spreads a hand over Carlos' bare chest, over the harsh diagonal scars. He's still soft underneath, because he's always been prone to plushness and curves and now he has access to all the food he could ever want; but below that there's muscle, and he's no longer ashamed or afraid of the shape of his chest.

Earl bends his head and kisses the scars, and Carlos closes his eyes with a sigh and lets his head fall back. They're sensationless, but he's proud of them, and glad that Earl isn't afraid of them, doesn't recoil. 

Earl's mouth trails down Carlos' body, his fingers skimming down Carlos' sides, pressing kisses into the skin as he goes. His fingers tuck just slightly into the top of Carlos' leggings, and he makes a soft questioning sound in his throat.

"Mm-hmm," Carlos hums, lifting his hips to let Earl pull the fabric away. At first he doesn't open his eyes, content to let Earl direct proceedings; but for a long moment there's nothing but Earl's hands on his knees, not pushing, just resting there, and Carlos has to look up.

Earl is staring at him, intent, eyes dark and hungry, glinting in the dim light. Carlos suddenly feels every inch of his nakedness, breathless, almost anxious as Earl's eyes devour him. 

Slowly, Earl lowers his head, hands guiding Carlos' thighs over his shoulders, eyes closing as his mouth makes contact with Carlos' dick. It's bigger than it used to be, but still not much more than an inch; it twitches up against Earl's mouth as he kisses it, a breath escaping Carlos' throat without his consent.

Earl— _moans_ , mouth opening wide and pressing hard over the whole of Carlos' sex. Carlos squeaks uncomfortably and braces himself for a tongue pressing in where nothing has any business doing anything; but instead Earl _sucks_ , then lips at one side and the other, ignoring the wet seam in the middle and the way it tries to part, invite him in.

Carlos gives a little shuddering laugh, relieved; _he's sucking my balls,_ he thinks, and lets his thighs part, a hand drifting down to pet over Earl's hair. Earl sighs at the touch, moving back up to mouth at Carlos' dick, lips wrapping around it and then slipping off to—to lick, pouting his lower lip and dragging it over and over and over Carlos' dick. Carlos arches and whines, embarrassingly close already, and Earl echoes the sound and clutches at his hips, dragging him closer, redoubling his efforts.

Carlos presses his fist over his mouth as he comes, whimpering and trying to keep quiet; they can't let Cecil hear, can't let any of the other Avoxes hear. Once the pleasure has faded he reaches down to nudge Earl gently away, twitchy and overstimulated.

Earl surges up to kiss him, still closemouthed but _hard_ , rocking his hips against Carlos' thigh. Carlos licks his own bitter taste off Earl's mouth and chin and jaw, puts his hands up on Earl's hips, urging them still.

Earl sighs, relaxing against Carlos' side, clothes scratchy against Carlos' skin. He lifts a hand to spell, **Good?** , raising his head to give the head tilt required to make the word a question.

**Good,** Carlos spells back, slowly, his hands having forgotten the shapes.

Earl smiles, and says, **It'd be faster for you to talk.**

Carlos shrugs. It feels like Earl's silence has lodged in his own throat, settled into the entire room; it feels like even a whisper would be too much for this, too harsh for whatever's building between them. Instead of saying any of that, he spells, **I could use the practice.** Already the motions are flowing more smoothly.

Earl smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. _Use it for what,_ he—probably isn't thinking, he probably has a hope that Carlos will survive the upcoming Games—

Carlos rolls, pushing Earl onto his back and straddling his hips. He leans down and kisses him, then pulls back and spells, **Fuck me.**

Earl's eyes widen, his hand creeping down between Carlos' legs. Carlos grabs his wrist, shaking his head. **Not like that. Other hole.**

He releases Earl's hand, and Earl signs, **It's okay?**

Carlos grinds back against Earl's erection. **Please.** That's one sign he actually knows, a touch of his hand flat to his chest; it's meant to be quick and subtle, something an Avox can do under the nose of their master without the master ascribing any meaning to the gesture, but Carlos holds it a beat too long, making it a demand.

Earl bites his lip, then nods and waves toward the nightstand. At Carlos' puzzled look, he spells, **Lube.**

The nightstand is far enough away that Carlos has to get up to go get it; he's distracted looking over his shoulder at Earl, stripping efficiently. The skin he reveals is just as freckled as his face, scarred in places, shades paler over his shoulders and back than his face and arms. He catches Carlos looking and arches an eyebrow, smirking.

Carlos doesn't need any sign to know exactly what Earl means. He digs through the nightstand, and sure enough, there's a full bottle—brand new, it looks like. He takes it back to the bed, but drops it on the mattress in favor of running a hand over one of the scars, wrapped around Earl's deltoid and across his back—

Carlos gasps.

The scars lie thick and heavy over Earl's back: whip marks, all faded to white. He reaches to touch, and Earl twists, putting them face-to-face again, scowling.

**Don't ask,** he spells, pointedly slow so Carlos can easily process.

**This one wrapped around when it struck,** Carlos says, touching the one on Earl's shoulder.

Earl's eyes narrow. He nods.

**It must've hurt.**

Earl rolls his eyes and huffs an irritated noise. At Carlos' affronted look, he deigns to sign, **That is the point. Don't pity me; I chose my risks with my eyes open. I'd do it the same again.**

**They're all old,** Carlos spells.

Earl nods. **Cecil isn't violent.**

**Just complicit.** Carlos shakes his head, climbing back on the bed and picking up the lube, gesturing to it with a **Why?** sign.

Earl just arches an eyebrow, eyes dropping briefly to Carlos' hips and back to his face.

Carlos rolls his eyes. Slowly, he spells out the full question: **Why is it here?**

A shadow falls back across Earl's face. **In case a guest wishes to make use of—**

Carlos catches Earl's hands in his own. Earl could break his grip easily, but he goes still and looks patiently at Carlos.

**That's not why I,** Carlos spells, and then isn't sure how to finish the sentence.

**I know,** Earl says, fingers twisting by his head. His next signs—Carlos catches two of them, but the middle one is unfamiliar. He repeats it, questioning, and Earl spells out the sentence for him: **I want you.**

Carlos repeats the new sign to himself once, learning it, and then meets Earl's eyes. **I want you. Not to get off. Just you.**

**I know,** Earl says again, then grins. **I want to get you off.** He reaches for the lube, but Carlos keeps it, snapping it open and coating the fingers of his own left hand. **Carlos,** Earl signs, scowling.

**I want you to be able to talk to me,** Carlos spells, slowly, biting his lip as he presses a finger inside himself. 

Earl smirks. **Can you concentrate?**

**M,** Carlos signs. **ayb... e...** He's rushing himself a little, adding a second finger so soon; the stretch becomes a burn and he shuts his eyes as though he can shut out the sensation.

Earl tugs his arm to get his attention. **Does it even feel good?**

Carlos shrugs. **Not this part. But I like it.** He's stretching the truth a bit; anal sex on its own never feels very good. But he does like it, likes feeling so close to another person, likes the way it feels defiant—the space not made to accommodate this act, accommodating it anyway. He arches back, pushing against his own fingers, impatient to have this part over with.

Eventually he decides he's done enough; he reaches for Earl, and Earl slicks himself up and braces himself steady for Carlos to sink down. Carlos lowers himself slowly at first, making sure he has the proper angle before pressing down, hard.

Earl gasps, both hands clutching at Carlos' thighs as his head drops back. Carlos spends a long moment just breathing, relaxing around the intrusion; then he puts his clean hand down to touch his dick. It makes him clench tight, makes Earl produce another ragged sound in his throat. Satisfied, he lifts his hips and sinks down again, moving in earnest, inviting Earl to move with him.

He can feel Earl's fingers digging into his skin, eight hard points of pressure and an empty space where two more should be, so he lets his eyes close and his head fall back, focusing on the sensations, on their mutual movement—on the _sounds_.

They're sex noises like any other sex noises: beautiful in the moment, strange and awkward anywhere else—but they sound natural, unaffected by what's been stolen from Earl. It could be any couple's noises, but it isn't; it's his noises and Earl's, and Earl's _voice_ is, God, hoarse and broken and so, so beautiful.

He comes again, coiling up so tight he feels Earl stop moving; when it passes he feels boneless, and every shift inside him sparks a hot electric jolt up his spine. Earl helps him ease off, flop onto his back, but It's Carlos who spreads his legs, pulls Earl up between them, urges him back inside.

**Will you come again?** Earl says, using a sign Carlos doesn't recognize but can guess at anyway.

**Doubt it,** he answers, rocking his hips lazily up. **Want you to come,** he adds, using the unfamiliar sign.

Earl huffs a laugh, pushes deep, and nods. Carlos wraps his legs around Earl's waist and gives himself over to the sensations, letting his eyes fall closed. He's satisfied, but by now the stretch and push is easy enough to be its own kind of pleasurable, and he likes the sounds Earl is making. Blinks up at him, and likes the look on Earl's face—intense, scorching concentration, tinged with desperation. 

**Talk to me,** Earl signs, his incomplete left hand clenched on Carlos' thigh. Carlos picks up his hands, and Earl bats them down again. **Talk to me,** he repeats. **I want to hear you.**

"Um," Carlos says. "I—I can't believe how much I missed you. You look so good, and—oh, Christ, you—you've always been so—so kind and patient, and I hate what they've done to you, I hate Cecil for owning you, I hate—" None of this is sexy, bet he can't stop it, and Earl doesn't look like he cares--might not even be listening to the words. "I _hate_ this, I just want to leave, I want to run away with you and find somewhere else, anywhere else—a cave in the damn woods, I don't care; if you and I could just be together away from all this—"

Earl groans, back bowing; Carlos' breath catches and he falls silent, reaching up to hold Earl, to pet his hair through the aftershocks and guide him down to lie against his chest. Earl stays there a while, panting, heavy enough that Carlos has to work at expanding his ribcage to breathe.

Eventually, Earl props himself up on his left arm, just far away enough to sign and be understood. **Do you know how I became an Avox?**

Carlos shakes his head. "You've never told me."

**You never asked Cecil?**

Carlos frowns. "Why would I? If you wanted me to know, you'd tell me."

Earl blinks, his gaze sliding out of focus. After a moment he seems to see Carlos again, touching his fingertips to his chin. Carlos opens his mouth to ask what he's being thanked for, but Earl is already spelling rapidly, and Carlos needs all his concentration to keep up.

**I was seventeen. I had a friend who was safe, not a tribute, but whose niece was eleven. My friend begged me to take her away, get out of Panem where she would be safe. We ran north. The Peacekeepers were on our tail, but we were almost there, almost safe—I sent her ahead by herself. Tried to cause a distraction. They caught me.** He pauses and looks away. **I think...** He shakes his head. **I don't know. I didn't see her on the transport back. I like to think she escaped. I like to think she's safe. I don't know.**

Carlos puts a hand to Earl's face. "What was—what is her name?"

**Janice,** Earl spells. **Her uncle, the one who wanted me to help her escape... was Cecil.**

Carlos sits up abruptly, nearly smashing his face into Earl's. " _Cecil_? You mean—"

Earl shoves a hand over Carlos' mouth, air gushing from between his teeth—the closest to a _shh_ he can manage now. Carlos catches himself, remembers to stay quiet. "Sorry," he whispers, and Earl takes his hand away to sign.

**Yes. He doesn't remember any of this. Doesn't even remember me, I don't think.**

"That's terrible," Carlos hisses. "He should be kinder to you—you saved his niece, you risked your life—you lost your freedom! How can he just—"

"Ca-o'," Earl says, and it's such a shock that Carlos shuts up. **He doesn't remember,** Earl repeats. **He's no more free than you or I—the Capitol's control might look luxurious, but don't begin to believe Cecil is any less a prisoner than I am.**

Carlos breathes, trying to control his anger. Finally, he says, "Why are you telling me this?"

**Escape is dangerous,** Earl spells, slowly, making sure Carlos absorbs every letter. **It's not a decision to make lightly.**

Carlos feels his eyes widen, his breath catch. "Are you saying...?"

**If they catch me a second time, they'll kill me.**

Carlos shakes his head. "I don't—I didn't mean—I'm not asking." Escape was never a feasible plan, just a wish, a dream he could indulge in while they were alone.

**I know,** Earl says. **So I'm asking you.**

**Author's Note:**

> I don't believe that any of the signs as described are actual ASL signs, though some are similar. Over time, and having been adopted by a community of people who, prior, probably didn't know ASL at any rate higher than the general population, signs have been lost or changed, adapted to circumstances where communication must happen under the noses of people who would... discourage it.


End file.
